This is the end... my only friend, the end...

It had to happen sooner or later I suppose. After almost 2 years of whining, I have run out of things to whine about. Or maybe, I have become resigned to my fate, and the fate that awaits us all. When I see something infinitely stupid, cruel or patently unfair occurring, I simply shrug. My blood should boil when I read about the idiotic girl who had a child at 12 and has said it "was the best thing what I ever done" - because, now, at 22, she can go clubbing, and she is a size 6, whereas all her friends are 'fat'. Some friend. I could rant and rave about the seemingly endless deluge which has been masquerading as the English summer this year, but why bother. Things will annoy me whether I acknowledge them or not.

So, I think I have said all that I need to say. I no longer feel compelled to share it. The world has changed around me, and has become a cunt. I have no desire to change with it. I no longer try to fathom the young people who walk around looking so odd, or how Christine Bleakley is still in gainful employment. What led me to this fateful decision? It's my own fault really. Because I am sooo anally-retentive, I was determined to write one article per week. It was easy at first, vitriol flowing from my spindly fingers as I inexpertly deconstructed things that probably annoyed only me. But, after a while, I was struggling to think of suitable sublect matter. I barrel-scraped to the point where all that was coming up was wood shavings. I am spent. Done. Sorry about that.

I will write the occasional post, if something manages to be that annoying that it overwhelms my apathy shield, although I guarantee nothing, liberated as I am from my own self-imposed schedule of misery. Thanks for reading, and sorry for giving up on this, as I have pretty much every endeavour I have ever undertaken. The rusting Scirocco in my garage will attest to that.

Fuck off.

Glad that the bloody band was banned

Supporting (or even having a casual interest in) England's workmanlike football team has long been a source of agony, interspersed with occasional cruel glimpses of hope, which have been dashed at every turn. The last time England won anything was before substitutes were introduced, and goalkeepers probably still smoked and ate cream cakes during the game. Football of that era is now so distant is is incomparable with the modern game. So, in reality, England have never won anything in terms of what football is now.

They have been particularly poor in European competitions, with their best performance in the modern era being the semi-final appearance in Euro '96, which ended in inevitable penalty defeats to ze Chermans and caused brainless thugs to smash up any car that sounded vaguely German, including Volvo(!). Since those relatively halcyon days, England performances have mainly been confined to squandering possession, huffing and puffing a lot and smashing hopeful shots into the stratosphere from 60 yards. Then 'plan B' usually starts 10 minutes after kick-off as they wilt in the heat; and involves either the goalie or centre-half lumping the ball onto the noggin of some guile-less forward.

I'm not overwhelmed by how England play, and that much is pretty evident from my previous paragraph, I guess. So I was pleasantly surprised by England's performance against the cowardly and supremely arrogant French in the opening group game. They did attempt to run with the ball (a technique those in the continent call 'dribbling') and even strung about 5 passes together before panicking and letting the other team have a go. Hodgson seems to have them well-drilled and has given license to the few decent players we possess to do something inspirational. The atmosphere seemed better, too; and then it dawned on me: The bloody England band was conspicuous by its absence.

South Africa 2010 was obviously the worst world cup ever, marred as it was by the sound of a billion vuvuzelas being blown by the locals and well-meaning foreigners adopting the 'if you can't beat 'em, join 'em' mantra. It was bloody awful. Every England game in recent memory has been marred in the same way, by the stupid England supporter's band. They are shite. If I wanted to hear the 'Great Escape' theme being torturously rendered 100 times in the space of 90 minutes then they would be the best band ever, but unfortunately I don't so they aren't.

Synonymous with failure, the band are all that can be heard as England are assailed by superior passing, movement and technical ability, which hushes the crowd to worried murmurs. Then, like an unwelcome phoenix, the sound of tinny trumpets and inexpertly banged drums rises to fill the panicked void, punctuated by the occasional half-hearted cry of 'England', as the sozzled supporters empty their bowels while the pressure builds. The band do not help matters at all. They merely annoy those watching the game on the telly, and they must make the supporters in the ground want to kill them.

So thank god then (for I now believe that there is a god, based on this act of benevolence alone) That the Ukrainian security did not let the band ruin yet another football match. They quite rightly told them to fuck off, which was a genius move. Hopefully they will not be allowed to play ever again. The band is basically a collection of trumpet players who can't play the trumpet, and drummers who cannot drum in time with each other. There is something quintessentially English about that, and it is something outmoded and embarrassing we need to discard, like racism or the royal family.


A Right Royal pain in the arse

There are certain things in life which I know other people enjoy, but which I hate. OK, perhaps 'certain things' doesn't quite encapsulate my rather broad distaste of pretty much everything, but then I don't care. I have never really had much affection for the Royal family, because they are as irrelevant as they are costly. They all have the look of a family who has intermarried one time too many. Yet, apparently what makes us all so quintessentially British, is the fact that we are ruled by a bunch of slightly mutated and deranged Germans.

I also have a long-held distaste of any live music events, and - more specifically - festivals. Again, I know that there are people who like nothing better than decamping into a shit-riddled field to stand in torrential rain listening to some pretentious band belt out their tunes. It probably helps that festival goers are off their faces at the time, either by chemical means, or just 'high on life' as they jump up and down to some insipid Coldplay number, listening to Chris Martin trying to anaemically sing his way through yet another advert-friendly anthem.

So, above, are 2 things I have very little time for. Unfortunately, both were to fatefully collide on the bank Holiday monday just gone as I was ushered to a bloody park against my will, ostensibly to watch a bunch of geriatrics perform for another geriatric who has had the serendipitous fortune to have her pampered arse wiped by the state for 60 long years. Standing there in a muddy field, packed with people I just wanted to murder in horrific ways, I then realised that the 'concert' I had been hoodwinked into attending was not a concert at all, instead, we would be watching a large telly in the middle of a soggy field, for reasons which defied all logic.

For over 3 hours, I witnessed people cheering and whooping at a bloody telly. I concede that the telly was pretty big, but it was still just a telly. The acts on the telly couldn't hear the responses, but yet the cheering continued. To rub salt into the wound, it wasn't like we were watching some exclusive broadcast of the event - they just piped regular BBC 1 (not even HD) onto a big bloody telly. There were even the type of glitches you have come to expect when watching a 'freeview' service, and there were a few occasions where the picture was lost all together, with an error message being booed at by thousands of inebriated orangutans.

I was bored. I spent some time playing games on my phone, then I realised that I had just one game. I looked at my watch continuously. Time didn't advance. I tried to guess what part of London people came from by only their appearance. The West Londoners had posh faces and big hair and goofy teeth and ethnic jewellery. The South Londoners all looked like they should be in prison. The East Londoners were all orange and walked like Danny Dyer. The North londoners all looked like utterly pretentious little cunts who deserved the slowest and most painful of deaths.

That amused me for an hour, then I spent the last hour scenario planning, and wondering when we could leave to avoid the mental rush to the tube. Thankfully, Paul McCartney came on. As the granny-faced weasel played some good Beatles records interspersed with some terrible Wings ones, I frogmarched my 'posse' to the tube and we left. At least there won't be another sodding Jubilee for 10 years.

Crane Stupid

Leonardo DiCrapio first appeared in the public spotlight when he starred in a clutch of films prior to his major breakthrough, which was Romeo and Juliet. One of these films was 'The Basketball diaries' which was about his descent from a promising young basketball player to a drug-addled rentboy who had a propensity to nosh off old men in public toilets. Perhaps he had experiences of this from his early 'casting' sessions. It is actually a pretty good film, so you should probably watch it, and if you are a paedophile you will certainly be wearing your 'pause' and 'slow motion' buttons out! Di Caprio rightly received a lot of praise for this role, but he also got rave reviews for his performance in another film, which I just cannot understand.

 'What's Eating Gilbert Grape' is a strange title for a strange film. It has Johnny Depp in it, looking suitably emo/moody (delete as appropriate) as well as a young Leo who plays some sort of retard. He received many plaudits for basically taking the piss. I may well go to hell for this, but me and my pals used to pretend we were 'mongs' by making dumb noises and stuff, because we were horrible little scrotes. But any bloke who tells you that he has never imitated someone with a mental disability is a LIAR. They are the same blokes who profess that they have never watched porn. LIARS. You know who you are.

Anyway, it soon transpires that 'What's Eating Gilbert Grape' is probably his mother, who is sooo morbidly obese that, upon dying, she is lifted out of her house by a crane, because she is too massive to be removed by any other means. I remember watching that poignant scene about 15 years ago, and through my unbridled tears of laughter thinking 'this could never happen'. A bit later, I became aware that this kind of thing DID in fact happen, albeit in America. A common response to improbable stories about individual greed and hubris is 'Only in America', which is what I thought to myself as I digested this news, and then forgot all about it and probably had a massive wank.

Only it's not only in America anymore. This morning, my effeminate jaw literally hit my desk as I read about a 19-year old girl from Wales who recently fell ill and required an ambulance. I suppose that in itself is pretty unremarkable. But what perplexed me is why it took 30 people 8 hours to extricate her from her house? The reason, my chums, is that the girl in question is 63 stone. Of the people, some were builders, who had to knock down 2 walls just to provide enough clearance to remove her from the house. I would imagine that the remainder were there to try and lift her, presumably using one of those harnesses that they put beached whales in.

People have a staggering attitude to obesity. Waddling heart attacks like Beth Ditto are applauded for 'not conforming', yet the irony is that you will have to be of a healthy weight to 'not conform' soon. Are we that sensitive that we would rather turn into a nation of mega-fatties than maintain healthy lifestyles? Most people believe that obesity is some type of insidious disease that comes along and turns otherwise healthy people into gargantuan monsters overnight. 'It's genetic!' they protest, as they stuff their cavernous gullets with chocolate eclairs. Generally, it's not. There are some individuals who have glandular issues, but they probably account for about 0.01% of the fatties out there now. The rest of them are stupid and lazy.

Why is obesity a seemingly human-only affliction? Of all the other ailments which generally affect all of our mammalian brethren, obesity is one of the few that affect us, and only us. That's not strictly true. I have seen obese animals before, but they were all pets, owned by equally-rotund humans. So what's the common denominator here? Could it be... too... much... food? Is that the simple answer to the question which seemingly perplexes so many people today, who 'can't understand' why they are so massive? Is that why 40% of all adult males in the UK are expected to be obese by 2040? Is that why, in poorer nations, obesity generally doesn't exist?

Nah, it couldn't be that simple.

Come back smoking - all is forgiven.

I was idly sitting on my sofa, contemplating my own demise the other day as the dreary rain lashed down my outdated double-glazed windows, when I again started to think about the futility of it all. Perhaps it is best, I mused, if the entire Shittish isles ends up submerged in water, with a 500 square mile floating mound of rubbish being the only marker that we were ever here. It's because I've been thinking about everything going wrong again - people eating too much, demanding too much, and unsustainable rises in population. A morbidly obese, decrepit nation of people who just do not have the good sense to die are ultimately what will kill us all.

On one hand, we have people who are seemingly less healthy and more stupid than ever. On the other, we have advances in medicine which will ensure that these unhealthy walking cadavers will be kept alive for far longer than they naturally would, which means they will need more sustenance to keep their diseased and bloated bodies going. In the middle of this mess, we have a benefits system which perpetually rewards laziness, by flitting away the few remaining taxpayer's hard-earned money. I imagine old people's homes of the future being a series of large barns with corrugated roofs, where slop is endlessly shovelled into rows of gormless mouths belonging to giant oafs who are happy to lie in their own excrement, so long as they can watch Jeremy Kyle repeats for 24 hours a day.

In the midst of my despair, I remembered the faithful cigarette, and started to wonder why it has been treated so harshly by all of us who used to love it. The government has announced plans to do away with branded packaging altogether. Soon, cigarettes will be sold in plain white boxes with a tiny piece of text announcing the brand. A  horrific strapline such as "FOR EVERY CIGARETTE YOU SMOKE, A CHILD IS DECAPITATED' in classic AIDS font will be emblazoned across a grisly picture of some lungs with shit in them. As it is, when people go into petrol garages, they buy and hide cigarettes underneath their porn so others won't judge them. I miss my yellow-fingered chums.

We all know that Nicotine (or possibly Tobacco, I can't be bothered to find out which) is an appetite suppressant. It is perhaps no surprise than, that since smoking has been pretty much criminalised, that waistlines have expanded. Also, we are in the midst of one of the worst recessions ever - it started in 2008, and is still going strong. The smoking ban took effect in 2007. Coincidence? I think not. Also, one less salubrious side effect of smoking is that it does have a tendency to kill you quite young. Well, something needs to, otherwise none of us will actually die until we are well into our 100's. So my plan for saving the human race from obesity, overpopulation and economic ruin is to bring back smoking and make it mandatory. Think about it -  everyone will be svelte, sallow-skinned, and will die at 60. You can thank me later.

What the 2012 FHM '100 sexiest' Poll got wrong

I can't believe it's been a whole year since the advert-heavy spunk rag known as 'FHM' released the results of their annual '100 sexiest women in the world' poll. But, here it is, back again like a malignant tumour that just won't go away. So, have the astue readers of FHM pulled their collective fingers out of their arses, and actually picked some attractive women for a change, or is the list just as jam-packed full of moon-faced harridans as last year? Let's find out.

Tulisa Contostavanosh (1)

Apparently the reward for being the most irritating X-Factor judge yet and letting a stupidly-named man film you whilst he slaps you in the face with his penis is the title of the sexiest woman in the world. All those billions of women on the planet, and not one was adjudged to be sexier than the aforementioned 'singer' and 'TV personality' who 'accidentally leaked' her banal sex tape. Jesus wept. Plus she flashes that bloody awful tattoo whilst doing her X-Factor 'salute' which makes me want to remove her arm with a rusty chainsaw.

Rihanna (3(!!!))

Here she is, still at number 3, and she still looks like she has been smashed in the head repeatedly with a claw hammer. There is not a motorcycle helmet in the world which can adequately circumnavigate her misshapen bonce, which is why Rihanna is never pictured wearing one.

Megan Fox (7)

Poor Megan has dropped 3 places this year, possibly because she has pumped loads of silicone into her face and now resembles a cat. Plus she still has big toes for thumbs.

Emily Atack (10)

Despite having a face like a widescreen telly, Emily climbed a massive 8 places this year, which is no mean feat considering the encumbrance which her massive head introduces. A walking timebomb of repressed fatness waiting to explode once she hits 25.

Pippa Middleclass (11)

Despite all evidence to the contrary, Pippa is not Kate Middleton's mum, and is only a few years older than her sibling. Apparently she has an amazing arse, which I suppose she does, were she a 10-year old boy, and I was a massive paedophile. But she's not and either am I. She has no arse to speak of at all and looks 45.

Jessie J (16)

Just wow. Soaring up from number 55, we have another intensely annoying reality TV 'judge'. This one has the delicate features of a space-hopper, and remains about as sexy as a stick of broccoli, even with most of her clothes removed, which they regularly are. She has the gangly limbs and malevolent glare of a spider.

Rosie Huntington-Whiteley (18)

2012 will fondly be remembered as the year when robots were first allowed to take part in the esteemed FHM poll. Ironically, Rosiebot's breakthrough role come in Transformers, a film about robots in which she plays a human! Lovingly created by Michael Bay and his team of maniacal inventors, Rosiebot is now serviced regularly by Jason Statham. She has all the charisma (and intelligence) of a wet dishcloth.

Cher Lloyd (25)

The annoying bobblehead-made-flesh may have slipped out of the public eye somewhat this year, but it is clear that many lads are still starching their socks over her. She just needs a sex tape to break into the top 10.

Taylor Momsen (29)

This former child star is sooo desperate for people to think that she is all edgy now, which she fails to achieve by saying bruises are cool and how she is really crazy and stuff. Most of the time, she looks like she has fallen head-first into the 'lost property' box of a brothel. She applies eye makeup like a Liverpool fan applies rational thought, which is not very well at all.

Christine Bleakley (58)

Somehow she has climbed from number 93 this year, despite fronting a breakfast show which has been subsequently (and deservedly) axed. How are adolescent lads even aware of her? they are all tucked up in bed until at least 11 am. The early morning stints have made her look even older than before, with her withered face now resembling a tan leather handbag.

Britney Spears (59)

So she's fallen quite a bit, but she still somehow infests the top 100 with her unhinged presence. Bedraggled and unkempt, and she is thicker in the middle than Kerry Katona. Who the hell is shining their jimmy to her these days?

Kate Garraway (97)

Perhaps having a face like the Mekon from 'Dan Dare' turns on the young folk of 2012, who I guess are banging one out to this 'MILF'. They either need their eyes testing, or this is all a big joke, like when fat people get voted for in talent shows.

John Terry - what a stupid cunt

In life, there will always be people we like, and people we don't like. Sometimes there will be disagreements about which individuals are likeable and dislikable which can lead to conflict - thus adding one more 'dislike' to each of the combatant's lists. Thankfully, there are also people out there like John Terry, who everyone agrees (outside perhaps of his immediate family) is a complete tool. Terry finally reached his Nadir when he was sent off playing for Chelsea at the Nou Camp on Tuesday, by trying to weasel his way out of his thuggish behaviour and deserved dismissal. Below, I present an abridged history of Terry's bad behaviour, which has culminated in his latest act of selfish stupidity. I hope you enjoy it.

2001 - As a young man, Terry infamously shouted vile abuse about the decimation of the World Trade Center to passing American tourists, one day after the 9-11 attacks. Most people with a relatively operational moral compass surmised at this point that Terry was a cunt of the highest order. Unfortunately, Chelsea fans were unable to see it, concentrating instead on his previous 'good character' and his relatively young age as reasons for mitigation.

Taunting American people one day after the worst terrorist attack in US history - Check

2008 - Terry would later display the kind of staggering arrogance epitomised by the majority of English footballers when he elected to wedge his massive Bentley into a clearly-marked disabled parking space. He did this despite the availability of an actual car park less than 50 yards away, but then we all know how long it takes Terry to cover 50 yards these days. Never fast in his prime, he now has the pace of an obese walrus. Bloody disabled people don't deserve to eat, anyway. Chelsea fans shrugged this off as an 'honest mistake'.

Complete disregard for people who are not as able-bodied or rich as him - Check

2010 - There has always been something a bit nasty about Terry, or 'JT' as the fawning media called him, back when it was acceptable to laud him as some sort of granite-hewn deity who would put his thick head on the line for club and country. Many admired him for his attitude on the pitch, but his reputation was further stained when he decided to shag the missus of a team-mate who had a kid with her. It goes without saying that Terry had his own wife and kids dutifully waiting at home for him. Chelsea fans merely whistled ignorance when asked about this latest episode of twattery.

Having the morals of a sewer rat and being the worst friend ever - Check

This finally prompted Fabio Capello to strip 'JT' of his captaincy, and people were up in arms. 'It has nothing to do with football!' they would protest, even though he had done the dirty on an erstwhile and potential England team-mate, who had lots of other friends in the England team; clearly it had everything to do with football. I don't remember Bobby Moore 'having a go' on Geoff Hurst's missus back in '66. But then Capello inexplicably gave Terry the England captaincy back, until:

2011 - The immensely likeable England and Chelsea captain is, allegedly a massive racist, who allegedly called Anton Ferdinand some allegedly racist names on several occasions during a game in which his beloved Chelsea lost to the might of QPR. Terry will not answer to these allegations until after Euro 2012, in which England will inevitable get knocked out in the Quarter Finals (if they get that far) and everyone will laugh at Terry's puffy, crying face. Chelsea fans mumbled something about Terry not being racist, before scuttling back to their surrey homes and refusing to answer the door.

Allegedly being a massive, stupid racist idiot - Check

2012 - Until 'That night in Barcelona' (© Clive Tyldesley) 'JT' had represented himself on the pitch reasonably well. That was until he decided to knee an opponent up the plums without apparent provocation, earning a well-deserved red card. Perhaps Terry didn't like the way the guy wasn't looking at him. This left his team to be ran ragged for the best part of an hour with 10 men, who miraculously prevailed without him. It's occasions like these where a 'mea culpa' is required to appease the fans who paid through the nose to watch you.

Unfortunately, Terry decided to come up with an excuse that didn't fool anyone, when he claimed that he had started to run in anticipation of his opponent doing the same, but then didn't. Now I know that Terry is slow, but even he pitches his body forward and moves his arms as he runs. What he doesn't do, is stand perfectly straight, and then violently bring one knee up to a position where testicles may or may not be situated, and then bring it down again, all while sporting the best 'fuck you' expression I have ever seen. Chelsea fans finally realised at this point, that not only is Terry a philandering, allegedly racist twat, he also has no respect for his own supporters, selling them an implausible story rather than be honest about whatever happened that day.

Behaving like a petulant child and thus very nearly ruining your club's chances of progression to a final, and then hilariously backtracking and taking each and every one of your supporters for absolute mugs - Check

I hope that Chelsea now go on to beat Bayern Munich (who made Ronaldo cry - Thanks Bayern!) and that Terry wells up as his team-mates deservedly lift the coveted trophy without him. Have to love karma.

Simon Cowell is categorically NOT gay

Poor Simon Cowell has had to unfairly live with the rumours surrounding his sexuality for years now, ever since his massive, bog-brush head first graced our television screens on Pop Idol. I, for one, have no idea why. This guy is straighter than a judge for Christ's sake. Look how hairy his arms are, for one thing. Thankfully, this week the tawdry gossip regarding his alleged propensity for cocks can be well and truly silenced, with the announcement that he bumped uglies with the lovely Dannii Minogue. More revelations have since come to light thanks to a steamy biography which has detailed his many dalliances (which were with women) over the years.

Apparently Cowell shoehorned Dannii Minogue into the X factor, so that they could have an affair for several months, and this was back in 2007, before Dannii started to look all haggard with that weird nostril thing and her vagina got torn to shreds. Fair play to him. Apparently this put Sharon Osborne's beaky nose out of joint, which made her precisely as angry and deranged as any other day. One can only imagine how the dull-as-dishwater Cheryl Cole got her job on the panel; the audition must have been good, that's all I can say. I'm just glad she got stuck in and didn't choke. He also had full sex with loads of other women as well, because there's nothing he enjoys more than having penetrative sex with women.

The coolest thing about Simon Cowell is how all of his conquests get on like a house on fire, and continue to hold him in high regard. In my experience, this is quite unusual. Cowell must be smoother than a freshly-groomed gay man's rectum to pull that one off. He was engaged to his makeup artist for years, which was doubly handy because once he was done having loads of sex with her, she could then do his nails and make sure his eyebrows looked shapely. They could also go shopping on Rodeo Drive together for hours, for straight men love nothing more than to go shopping with their partners. For some reason, it didn't eventually work out, but they are still very good friends. Simon even let her keep one of his mansions; what a gentleman.

Going back further, there was Terri Seymour, a woman with such wretched vocal chords that she constantly sounded like Marge Simpson after eating gravel cakes. Her very strange voice eventually led to the sad breakup of the couple, who nonetheless remained good friends. As a goodwill gesture, Simon Cowell left her with a helicopter, 2 houses and some ponies. So why is such an eligible bachelor having a hard time settling down? Perhaps he just hasn't found 'the one' yet, maybe because no-one can measure up to his mum, who he speaks to every day. Anyway, I'm glad that the whole UK (and indeed the world) can rest easily knowing that Cowell is definitely NOT gay. Because if there's one place that gay men do not fit in, it's within the realm of showbiz and light entertainment.

'Derek' is just terrible.

Ricky Gervais needs to be careful, for he is rapidly becoming to UK sitcoms what M. Knight Shyamalamalamalamalamalamalan has come to represent in movies. He seems to be on a downward trajectory, just like the mystical Sixth Sense director. 'The Office' was superb, 'Extras' OK, and 'Life is Too Short' merely 'meh', but all have been surpassed in utter awfulness by the complete mess which is 'Derek'. It really is absolutely the worst thing I have seen in ages. It is that disgustingly bad, that I compel all of you to watch it, for you will not believe how truly bad (and very odd) it is.

I am going to try to explain exactly what is wrong with it, but I'm really struggling with where to start, as it is just so very bad in almost every respect. I guess I'll start with the cast. Gervais plays the eponymous lead, and his performance is unsettling to say the least. It is never explained exactly what is wrong with the character, so I'll surmise my own impression: Gervais seems to have watched Rain Man while on Acid because he is definitely channelling some alternate-universe Dustin Hoffman here, a universe in which Hoffman is the worst actor in the world.

You may have seen the second series of Extras, where Gervais' character gets the lead in a terrible sitcom. In the sitcom, Gervais sticks his lower jaw out and walks around like he has been lobotomised - this is exactly how he plays 'Derek'. For this reason, I just couldn't take Derek seriously as a character at all. Also, the pratfalls that Derek sets himself up for are painfully contrived, such as when he leaves his favourite pudding on his chair and than sits on it - oh the hilarity! Or when he falls into a pond, and runs through the house naked, LOL! He event shares a somewhat tenuous grasp of the value of money, again referring back to Dustin Hoffman.

The supporting cast are just as bad. The woman who works in the care home has paper-thin characterisation; we learn that she left school at 16 and has remained at the care home ever since. She is a cliched, typically-downcast little mouse of a woman - she looks like she is about to cry all of the time. Apart from one scene where she inexplicably headbutts a woman who is picking on poor Derek, and for some reason the woman's mates don't stab her to death in retaliation. Nothing about it makes any sense. Karl Pilkington plays - well - himself really, although in this life he is a curmudgeonly caretaker who is permanently depressed. Perhaps his depression stems from having to wear the worst comedy baldy wig of all time; I compel you to watch 'Derek' just so you can see how awful it is for yourself. Whatever you have imagined, will not be as silly as the reality. It doesn't even look stuck on properly.

Thankfully, this episode is just a pilot at the moment, and if anyone has any modicum of sense this will be buried and forgotten about as quickly as Matthew Horne's career. Its execution is so contrived that even the music tries to jar you into some sentimental response. I kept expecting an M-People song to start at any moment; that's how bad it is. At one point an old woman dies, and Gervais rather creepily strokes his own head with her dead hand. It is so very, very terrible, that I actually believe that it is intentional in some way. Here are my top theories as to why Gervais made such a misjudged and unfunny show.

1) If he wants to present the next 'Golden Globes', He is contractually obliged to make something which is at least as bad as Johnny Depp's 'The Tourist', just so he can be teased as well

2) He was forced into playing someone with learning difficulties after his 'mong' comments, so he resentfully made the worst piece of garbage he could conceive of

3) He is an Andy Kauffman-type genius who deliberately set out to make something terrible, and he succeeded beyone his wildest expectations

Anyway, form your own conclusions - I'm sure that it is available somewhere on 4 On Demand to watch, probably on page 60.

Voles are not to be trusted

I knew a vole once. Never liked him. Always trying to finish my sentences, never actually listening to me. A little sycophant. Normally I would let my intense dislike of voles go over my head, but not after what happened yesterday. I was sitting in my pants, minding my own business, when a vole took it upon himself to repeatedly knock on my door. I asked what it wanted. "Won't you like to see this pegs?." He replied. He was wearing arrogant slip-on canvas shoes, and not much else. He looked like he should have been in One Direction. "No thanks." I slammed the door in his sarcastic little vole face.

About 10 minutes later, I heard a knock on my door again. I ignored it this time, as I was masturbating furiously and crying a bit. But the rapping grew louder, and eventually I was put off. I decided to confront the vole again. I again asked him what he wanted, this time with rather more force. He sneered at me, and produced a drawstring bag, which had pegs and sponges in it. "You buy this pegs?" The vole asked. "I don't want your pegs" I replied. He looked sad at first, then angry. "Good day to you" I said, and slammed the door in his narky, sneering little face.

Roll on an hour, and I was lightly cutting myself with dirty razor blades. The blood was congealing in a most pleasant way, when the knocking on my door started again. I dabbed my bleeding arms on a towel and stomped down the stairs, only stopping to punch myself in the face repeatedly. I almost pulled the door off of it's hinges, only to be confronted by the vole and 2 burly policemen. I realised that I looked a bit of a state, what with my bleeding arms and face, and tried to stammer some pleasantries to the officers. "Hexcuse me sir, this vole says that you stole his television." I was that incredulous, that I was unable to form words. Some dribble came out and I wet myself.

The police pushed past me and removed my television out of my front room. The vole smirked at me as they carried it over my threshold. "This vole has announced that he won't press charges, provided that you buy some pegs from him." I felt in a bind. I gave the vole 10 pounds and he dipped his filthy little hand into the bag, and threw 5 measly pegs onto the floor. They weren't even the same colour or style, and some were faded - obviously stolen. It was then that I realised that the 2 burly policemen were actually scrawny little voles! They ran off with my television and I was powerless to stop them as I was naked and bleeding profusely. The remaining vole just looked at me. "Next time, you buy my pegs, yes? and maybe a sponges?" I said nothing, merely slamming my door in his twattish little vole face.

Fuelling the flames of discontent

I hate talking about politics - most people who talk about politics sound like they should be in a grotty sixth form college with a broom up their arse, and I include myself in that. And then you have the uniformly shite stand-up comedians who all went 'political' in the 1980's and were not funny then, and certainly ain't funny now. I'm looking at you, Ben Elton. So, as a warning to people reading this, I will be speaking about some political things in the next few paragraphs. Sorry about that. I am only compelled to write about it now because I am really fucked off.

You may have witnessed David Cameron's little jaunt to the USA recently, where he basically spent the better part of a week trying to insert his tiny, flaccid public school penis into Barack Obama's arse. The love-in was as sickening as it was cynical; we all know that Obama hates us for that Mau Mau shit, so what do we do? We send over exactly the type of weak-chinned, toffee-nosed chump who would have tortured Obama's relatives and then chatted to his chums about it over a jolly game of tennis on his return.

I'd have much rather Obama simply told the assembled throng of dignitaries in the White House that the thought that Cameron was a bulbous-headed little fawning tosspot rather than pretend he liked him. Although, the hyperbole was laid on so thickly that I actually think that Obama was being sarcastic. I really hope he was. Maybe we'll find out when he overwhelmingly fails to get his second term and has to resort to writing books and stuff again, if only to keep his she-hulk missus stocked up in red meat and egg yolks.

I've digressed a bit. My point is, that at one point, the vacant dickhead we have to call our Prime Minister managed to remove the silver spoon from his mouth for just long enough to muse how expensive petrol was in the UK when compared to the US. Cameron actually said the following: "The commoners who actually pay for their fuel we are all facing the problem of higher oil prices and that translates into the cost of filling up the Rolls Royce family car, which is very high here in the US but frankly even higher in the UK"

LOWER TAXES ON FUEL THEN, YOU OVER-PRIVILEGED, BLINKERED IDIOT. The reason we pay more than pretty much everyone else is because YOU tax 58 PENCE IN EVERY LITRE OF FUEL. In the USA, the average tax paid (which fluctuates by state) roughly comes in at about 35p per gallon. That's per gallon. Now, I know that US gallons are gay, and thus smaller than imperial ones, but you're still looking at about 8 PENCE PER LITRE. So, we pay 50p more per litre on TAX ALONE (not including an additional 20% VAT) than the yanks do. There's your answer, Cameron.

Now things have come to a head, with Diesel costing almost £1.50 per Litre, and fuel tax will be going up AGAIN following the latest 'budget'. Lorry drivers around the UK are now considering taking a break from murdering people to form blockades in front of petrol garage forecourts. And the official advice from the bunch of feckless morons who supposedly run this ruined country is to rock up to your local BP garage and stockpile fuel, carrying it in as many jerry cans as you can. So now, motorists are haemorrhaging their remaining fuel by sitting in massive queues in petrol garages across the land, blind as they are to the irony of their actions.

Stirling work once again from the absolute divs we have in charge.

The road to hell

Does anyone know someone who can build jetpacks? I ask this, for I am rapidly running out of palatable ways to get to work. It is well-documented that I have issues with commuting, whether it be by train, car, or bicycle. Perhaps I need to face up to the fact that I either need to move house or change my employer to avoid the utter hell that is my current commute. Last week, I was driven into by someone on their phone who then subsequently blamed their bad driving on the fact that 'they had an automatic car'. I wish this was an isolated incident of stupidity, but the cretin who rammed me is not alone amongst the scores of retarded motorists who should still be tucked up in bed at 7 am. Because I am a highly irritable and pathetic specimen, I have categorised the bad driving styles I witness below, because I have OCD and need to do stuff like that.

The Creeper

This is the driver who thinks that, by driving very slowly, they basically have the right of way in any given situation. They typically exhibit this behaviour when entering onto major roads; they creep forward at about 1 inch per second, slowly becoming more and more of a dangerous obstacle to the flowing traffic until someone loses their nerve and lets them go. These people rarely finish the day with their front bumpers intact.

The Mourner

These mongs seem to be perennially driving to a funeral, as they never come within 10 miles per hour of the speed limit at any given time. Either that or they can see ghosts, and are stuck behind an unseen 1970's era rag 'n' bone man's Horse and cart. A likelier explanation for their behaviour is that they are just not very bright, and their tiny little minds cannot process information in real time. These are probably the same people who walk really slowly too.

The Distracted

Some drivers really have an inflated opinion of their abilities. These are the ones who can smoke, talk on the phone and do their makeup (sometimes all 3 at once) while also being completely safe, and aware of their surroundings. These are also the ones who will crash into objects with alarming regularity, and then blame factors beyond their control for their utter stupidity. They don't know what a 'no claims' bonus is, as they have never had one.

The Tank Driver

I regularly witness people in tiny cars who seemingly are under the illusion that they are driving Hummers. I watch, awestruck, as they hesitantly overtake cyclists, by nonchalantly drifting out 25 yards into oncoming traffic and eventually completing a protracted overtaking manoeuvre which has endangered the lives of the cyclist, the other road users and any pedestrians unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity.

The Duke of Hazard

These drivers like using the old hazard lights, and indeed they will use them to basically excuse being rude, inconsiderate twats. Whether it is stopping on a very busy road to talk to their equally slack-jawed companion who happens to be passing them in the opposite direction, or simply double parking and grid-locking an entire street, they have no shame. Perhaps they will park in a disabled bay despite being able-bodied (if not minded), but then they do have their hazards on so the rest of you can all fuck off.

The Queue-Jumper

Why bother waiting in traffic in a filter lane when you can bomb along on the outside, and then simply force your way into the required lane at the last second? These guys are just too damn busy to wait in traffic like the rest of us proles. They have jobs at Estate Agents or Next to get to. They will wait in the outer lane, blocking it entirely without any shame, and then make out that it is your fault if you rightly decide to not let them in. Someone always caves, and the lesson goes unlearnt.

The Suspicious

These people seemingly have an aversion to circles, as they quite simply refuse to move if there are any other vehicles using a roundabout, regardless of where the others may be in relation to them. If the roundabout is completely clear, they will then bravely venture onto it, reciting 'Hail Mary' as they go. Clutching their rosary beads, they will eventually make their way across - they may indicate, they may not; it all depends how scared they are at the time.

I hope that you have enjoyed this petty and utterly futile brainfart of mine, and that you now regard me with even less fondness than before (if that were possible) but someone has to tell the truth about these menaces on our roads. Be on the lookout for them, for you are only a step away from inflated insurance premiums and Cat D write-offs if you see them. Also, look out for those drivers that combine all of the attributes above - they generally have long hair and wear dresses and things, and they are the most dangerous of all.

Starwars toys were rubbish

There was a time when the mere mention of the word 'Starwars' would send many a dysfunctional virgin all giddy with excitement. This was before George Lucas ruined what would have been his legacy with 3 dreadful prequels. I remember watching the Phantom Menace through my fingers and shaking my head a lot. Then after I watched Attack of the Clones and Revenge of the Sith I realised that The Phantom Menace was actually the best of the trilogy by some distance. At least there were attempts at levity and humour rather that just a depressing and highly unlikely descent into evil, portrayed by one of the worst actors of all time. There are people in Hollyoaks who could have played Anakin with more conviction and gravitas.

The other unfortunate side effect of the prequels is that it got me thinking about what it was that I liked about the original 3 films. I mean if you detach yourself emotionally from the franchise, the first movie is pretty awful. Camp, hugely derivative and poorly acted (with the exception of Harrison Ford) No wonder Frank Herbert was pissed off about its level of success. The Empire Strikes Back is a great film, despite the title. One of my favourites. I really can't fault it. Return of the Jedi would be the worst conclusion to a trilogy were it not for The Matrix - Revolutions. So I was scratching my head about what endeared me so to Starwars. Surely only one excellent film out of 3 isn't enough. And then I remembered the inhabitants of my mum's loft. It's always been about the figures, or 'toys' as I like to call them.

Except, thinking about it now, the toys were rubbish too. At a time when Action Man even had moving eyes, the lack of articulation on the Starwars figures was staggering. They had 5 points of movement on the whole toy. You could move the arms and legs and head, although care had to be taken with the head as it was prone to falling off (more about that later). You could only make Starwars figures move around like Basil Fawlty doing his best impression of a Nazi. They had seats on some of the spacecraft but the figures couldn't use them properly, having to perch on the end of them, straight-legged, doing a bit of yoga. The vast majority of the figures looked awful, with massive heads. Han Solo in particular looked like the Elephant Man.

Even the better-looking figures were flawed. Darth Vader's and the Jedi lightsabers had a peculiar thin tip on the end of it, so it looked like one of those novelty balloons used to make animals which had been partially blown up by an asthmatic child. It also 'magically' appeared from the arm of the character, so was at a very odd angle which made duels a bit awkward really. Boba Fett, who should never have been killed off looked OK but even he suffered. I spent years of my youth trying to pry that rocket out from his back, only to later read that the Rocket would have been a spring-loaded missile, but for overzealous intervention from the heath and safety bods. I didn't realise health and safety even existed in the early '80s. My school certainly didn't seem to be aware of it.

Amongst the Starwars toys I have in my mum's loft a good proportion of them are headless. I remember dropping Han Solo and his head simply fell off. I didn't even drop him with any force, or so I told my brother. I have a lanky bounty hunter without a head, too. I don't even know how his head fell off - I just went to play with him one day, and his head was gone. Princess Leia lost her head during an incident in late '87. And I only have C3PO's leg, the rest of his torso lost along with all of the various weapons, capes and other accessories that would invariably break, or become forever entombed down the back of the sofa. I sound like such a careless child. But I have all the little weapons and stuff from my Transformers. But then Transformers were good and worth looking after.

I only had a few vehicles. I couldn't afford any with lights and sounds or anything like that, given that they costed the same as a family hatchback at the time. I wanted the walky thing with 4 legs, but got the little one with 2 legs. I wanted the Millennium Falcon and get the 'rebel transporter' which was basically a large shell with nothing inside it at all, just rows of studs to attach your hapless escaping rebels to. That's right, an interstellar vessel which apparently you have to stand up in during hyperspace. It looked vaguely like a beige turd. I did manage to get Boba Fett's ship (Slave1 I believe) which actually looked like an Iron.

Because the toys weren't great, they eventually became the whipping boys of my other toys. I had some He-Man figures which I used to terrorise the Starwars ones with. I had one called Fisto (really) with a 'bashing' action that I used to wreak havoc on them. Rows upon rows of demented-looking Starwars characters were felled in this manner. Others were simply blown to smithereens by Galvatron and his Transformer cronies. I even used to use my Hamster as some sort of pit monster who unfortunately would only look at them in a vaguely disinterested manner. Even he was unimpressed. That is because they were small, looked gay and some didn't even have heads.

The day after the day after tomorrow

According to a bunch of long-dead midgets and some very odd contemporary Americans, 2012 is the year of the apocalypse, and we are all doomed to die as a result of some unlikely disaster or another. As some of you may know, I am quite intrigued by the end of the world, perhaps because, while accepting all of our differences in colour, creed and religion, we are all equal in death. Nah, the truth is far more prosaic than that - I'm just a morbid twat. Extinction fascinates me. In the past, there have been loads of so-called disasters that have threatened to kill everyone, but unfortunately have been a massive damp squib. Here are some of my most bitter disappointments, in roughly chronological order.

Mutually Assured Destruction

As a child of the 1980's, it was impossible to avoid the cold war. There were loads of films about it, and I remember being genuinely scared that Gorby was going to melt us all to bits. Perhaps I should have been more worried about the geriatric loony in charge of the USA at the time, but never mind. The spectre of nuclear war was everywhere. Raymond Briggs created a wonderful cartoon called 'The Snowman'; he followed up this poignant tale with 'When the Wind Blows', which is a lovely story about London being eradicated from the face of the earth, and one nice old couple's cheery descent into radiation sickness, and death. Lovely stuff. I like to think that the Soviet and US leaders all sat down together and watched 'War Games', and decided that, like Tic Tac Toe, there can be no winner. Disappointing.

AIDS

Holding hands, playing games with girls, sitting on toilet seats, being sneezed on, hanging around with the poor kids. As a child, these were but a few of the ways in which it was possible to catch AIDS. Kids were terrified, genuinely running scared of each other in case they caught AIDS. AIDS firmly supplanted Skill - which had somehow mutated into an African bum disease - as the most scary virus to catch. Years later, rumours circulated that people were being stabbed with AIDS syringes in clubs. I'm not one to trivialise such a serious virus, but the adverts in the 1980's created a whole generation of paranoid, terrified children, and an epidemic which could only fail to live up to expectations.

Salmonella

Salmonella was everywhere, and had something to do with Eggs and Edwina Currie, or 'Eggwina Currie' as she was known for a while. All I know is that children suddenly started to regard eggs with suspicion. Chickens were also implicated, and all sorts of rumours circulated in the school playground that eating chicken would give you chicken pox, or the AIDS. Edwina Currie would later have sex with John Major, but she was never to quite reach the same level of fame again; deciding to steer away from hugely generalistic statements that terrified everyone.

Mad Cow Disease

In the mid 1990's everyone who had eaten beef within the last 10 years was told that they had a jolly good chance of being DEAD before the decade was out. Luckily, I had been eating and subsequently working at McDonald's during that period, so I hadn't gone near beef at all. I still remember the look of fear washing over vacant eyes as I told my customers that we had thrown away all of our burgers and could only serve chicken or fish. I remember the piles of cows being set on fire in farms across the land. The truth is, that only about 3 people died of mad cow's disease, and I'm convinced that the whole epidemic was made up by French people or fanatical Hindus.

Ebola/Ecoli

I can't remember if these were the same things or not. All I know is that they came out of Africa and would disintegrate all of your flesh in a matter of minutes. They sounded really great but were unfortunately confined to sparsely populated areas, so not nearly enough of us died. Promising, but ultimately a letdown.

Foot and Mouth

Apparently the poor cows hadn't had enough first time around, so a bunch of farmers decided to set fire to all their bovine livestock again. Poor cows. Cue lots of Labour MPs running around in the Cotswolds, trying to placate upset yokels.

Swine Flu

This is another joke disease which was made up by lazy Mexicans who couldn't be bothered with all the tourists one summer, so they shut up shop. Much like chickens, eggs and cows before them, pigs were suddenly public enemy number one and were lynched or shouted at wherever they were seen. People were terrified - hundreds of thousands of deaths were expected, but it actually turned out that Swine Flu was only slightly less gay than normal flu. What had so much promise rapidly degenerated into another crushing disappointment. Such is life.

Indignant Proposal

Yesterday should have been a reminder of how insignificant we are - how we have to add a day every 4 years to compensate for magnificent, cosmic events outside of our control. Like a watch that runs a tiny bit too slow, every four years us earthlings must readjust ourselves to get back into step with the celestial rhythms that are happening beyond the confines of our stinking mudball. As a bitter young child, leap years were one of the few things that fascinated me, if only because they wreaked havoc with all the scrooges who wanted to reuse their calendars.

So I am quite annoyed that the only mentions of this year's extra day were related to women being 'allowed' to propose. Men all over the world must have made whatever excuses they could to be apart from their girlfriends yesterday - deciding instead to do a spot of spelunking or going to work in an oil rig. In fact, the only safe place to be was deep in the bowels of the earth, just to make sure that a poorly-spelled text message didn't find it's way across within the allotted 24 hours. Even the FA tried to reduce the window of opportunity for women by arranging the England-Holland game for the same day.

The poor men who couldn't escape yesterday were screwed. Say 'yes', and you're married, say 'no' and you're single.  So saying 'no' to a woman regarding such an important question is bound to result in a breakup. It's normally men who have to take most of the risks in a relationship; To meet a mate, they have to saunter up to an unimpressed lady and her entourage whilst dancing like a spasming epileptic, or try online dating, where deranged harridans who are too odd for the real world lie in wait.

Men typically have to decide when the opportune moment is to introduce their penises into the relationship, and then hope that said introduction isn't met with raucous laughter or tears of disappointment. Toughest of all, men have an unenviable 1460-day stint in which it is their job to propose. But, as men are well used to being told 'no' by women, they can take the quite probable rejection with good grace. Women, on the other hand, aren't used to being told 'no' by men, and will cry and sulk and jump up and down and scream until they are sick to get their way.

Women just cannot be trusted to ask questions of this magnitude. Something needs to be done about this. I propose that this silly, politically-correct right to propose once every leap year is removed from the grasping hands of females forthwith, and restored solely to men, as it should be. I realise that this complicates things somewhat for lesbians, so the job will go to the most butch one of the couple. There are certain things which are just best left to men - such as driving, operating complicated machinery, voting and receiving an education. To all the ladies out there I impart the following wisdom - Never ask a question if you are not prepared to take 'no' for an answer.

Name a funny Woman. Eddie Izzard doesn't count.

Last weekend I actually had to leave my house to go and 'socialise' with real actual people. I went to a comedy club thingy and watched some funny but immediately forgettable comedians. Actually, I watched 3 funny but immediately forgettable comedians, and one incredibly unfunny and memorable comedian. Shockingly, the unfunny one was a woman. She was terrible, delivering unfunny lines with all the commitment of Wayne Rooney to his missus. She had to make AIDS jokes to try and be funny, but even though the AIDS is hilarious, her jokes failed to resonate. There was no real laughter at all. The worst culprits were the girls in the audience who completely stonewalled her - What happened to all that solidarity bollocks? - leaving a brave handful of males to give the impression that she wasn't the worst comedian ever.

But then, no women are funny, unless they are drunkenly falling over on Big Brother or otherwise being incompetent or abusive on Big Brother. And then they are being laughed at, rather than with. But why are women not funny? And before you snap on your bonnet and jump under a horse, show me any evidence that they are. Of all the female comedians in the public eye, none are actually funny. I will prove why all these well-established 'comediennes' are about as funny as Matt Horne sans the fat bloke.

Dawn French
- not funny. dresses up as fat versions of normal people, and that's as far as the joke goes. Ha ha, she's like Harry Potter, but fat, mindblowing, LOL!

Jo Brand - jokes about being fat and ugly and men being rubbish. LOL, she knows the self-deprecation, genius!

Katy Brand - useless. Sounds like an annoying 10-year-old boy trying to be funny. Dresses up as fat versions of singers and does unfunny pastiches of their material. LOL, Kanye West uses an auto-tune, LOL!! Mental!

Catherine Tate - only funny act is a copy of Matt Lucas 'doing' Vicky Pollard, plus, she plays a gran who swears! LOL! Old people aren't supposed to swear but she does! Nuts!

Sarah Silverman - Potty-mouthed horse-faced yank. Ooh she talks about sex and rude stuff even though she is a woman, that must be LOL then!

Arabella Weir - she was the unfunny one off the Fast Show. She had the one joke that was 'Does my bum look big in this?" LOL! Women always ask that, what great observational humour! And a joke well worth telling in dozens of slightly different situations! And her bum was big as well, LOL double funny!

Smack The Pony - a female-only sketch show with one male supporting actor. You could always tell when the male was talking on account of his deeper voice and him actually being funny.

That mong one off Grange Hill and Extras - LOL she talks about having cerebral palsy and people thinks she's mad and things, mental and also brave/really funny as well!

So now I have provided my bucketload of irrefutable evidence, let's look at why the women are not funny. Perhaps it's because women don't have to develop a sense of humour in school. Boys get the shit kicked out of them unless they are the hardest or most mental in the year, so humour becomes an important defence mechanism. It's hard to put your boot through someone's face with any venom if you are laughing - go on, try it. More likely though it's because men don't have to be 'laughed into bed'. All women really need to do to get laid is turn up at a boozer with pretty much all limbs/teeth present and correct and someone will have propositioned them by the end of the night. Men have to jump through hoops to get some action which is what makes us so smart, hilarious and inventive. Women's brains just aren't stretched enough to master the art of comedy, but they do have boobs etc so be nice to them and most importantly, make them laugh!

His master's voice gets quieter with each passing year

Tower Records, Woolworths, Our Price, Virgin Megastores, HMV. These guys were the big hitters of the past, selling records, tapes, videos and Megadrive games. I used to spend most Saturdays with my mates (when I had mates) playing demos and looking at the covers of dodgy foreign films with tits in them. Even impoverished high streets in the north would sport at least 2 of these stores a decade or so ago, but now, only HMV clings onto its miserable existence, seeing its market share eroded by shameless cunts who refuse to pay for stuff they want. But, as much as it pains me to say it, there is another glaring reason for HMV's current plight. HMV are as old-fashioned as their quaint logo.

There is a staggering disconnect between HMV online and the HMV stores in general. They seem to be completely independent of each other. On most online retailers that also have a High Street presence, you can elect to either buy the item online, or select a store near to you and reserve one. It may seem a bit antiquated to go to a store and buy something like a DVD, and you're right, it is. There is no need to engage your senses when choosing a DVD in the manner you do when you buy clothes or cushions and things. But then I had no choice.

I received a(n?) HMV gift card for Christmas, which was ace as, being a hermit, I love to buy DVDs and that. I decided to buy the Office season 6 DVD, which was £22.99 on the website. I primed my gift card, ready to purchase the DVD. But then, I noticed the small print on the gift card which stated that I could not use the card on the website, and would have to go in store instead. This was annoying, as it meant a trip to Wimbledon, and I hate Wimbledon. Being that I hate Wimbledon, I thought that I'd best check that they at least had The DVD I wanted  in stock so that I could reserve a copy and not completely waste my time. Obviously, given that the website and actual store communicate less effectively than feuding OAP's, I could not check the stock on the website. That would be way too convenient, and impossible for HMV to manage (although Halfords, Game and Homebase to name but a few seem to manage just fine)

I had to resort to the telephone. I felt like I was slowly slipping back through the years, as HMV relied on ever-antiquated technology to fulfil my request - I was waiting for an automated message to tell me to send an enquiry by way of a telegram. To my surprise, after only some 5 minutes of being advertised stuff I didn't want I got to speak to a human. The human sounded unhappy. I nicely asked the human whether they could check if they had the Office Season 6 in stock. After a few more minutes of rustling, I received an update from the human who stated that they didn't have any in stock. I asked if the human knew when they would receive any more, and was met with a cross-between a murmur and a groan. Words followed stating that he didn't know, and couldn't see anything on the system, so I thanked the human for his time and bade him farewell.

It was later that day that I found myself at Wimbledon anyway, and I just thought, on the off-chance, that I would pop into HMV and have a look for The Office Season 6 DVD. Also, the security guard looked really lonely - I was half-tempted to stick an iPod dock under my jumper and run about a bit, if only to give him a sense of purpose. Negotiating my way through the tumbleweed and hideous array of 3rd-party iPod peripherals, I finally found the DVD section. And lo and behold, I was greeted by the lovely sight of a dozen copies of The Office Season 6 DVD! And even better, the DVD was only 30 pounds, which is just 7 pounds and one pence dearer than the website (which also offers free delivery) But at least I got to spend my gift card.

I felt a sense of finality as I left the HMV that day, reasonably safe in the knowledge that I would never set foot back in there again, or at least not until the inevitable 'closing down' fire sale, bought about by certain administration. It's a shame, really. I would love for HMV to survive, but fear for it like a dear old friend who can no longer keep the drool from their chin. Besides, all of the other entertainment giants of the High Street are gone now, so maybe it's time for HMV to do one as well. So, Goodbye HMV, I shall not see you again. Unless someone buys me a gift card.

Driving through the snow, numpties in my way...

A very small amount of snow has dusted the Greater London area overnight, which is great. Snow is awesome. It can beautify even the worst architectural nightmares conceived in the '60's. Everything looks really bright, and an eerie quiet descends as all the birds are seemingly overwhelmed by the beauty surrounding them and shut the hell up. Feet make satisfying noises as they trudge through freshly-laid snow. It's fun to run out onto virgin snow in bare feet, it feels nice and the footprints look loads better than boring old shoe ones.

The only downside of the snow is what it does to our transport infrastructure, which tends to fall to pieces as soon as the first flake makes contact with terra firma. But I can report that all of the major roads I drove down this morning were completely free of snow, or even slush, as they are used so heavily, that the snow does not get the chance to settle, or is quickly dispatched by the sheer frequency of traffic. Despite the roads being clear as a whistle, I was stuck behind very slow people several times. You see, some drivers panic when there is snow, and their feeble little minds completely shut down.

Unable to process this alien white powder surrounding them, some drivers stare at it in awe while coasting down the road at speeds that a Sinclair C5 could better, serendipitously drifting through red lights and into cyclists without a care in the world. My frustration was made worse when I arrived at Richmond Park, only to find that the de facto speed limit adopted that morning was 5 miles per hour. All I could see in the distance was a huge metal convoy, slowly umbering it's way around the park like a lethargic snake.

I was busy being a moany old cunt when I suddenly had an epiphany... all around me was brilliant, white, unspoiled snow. It was amazing. One of the most breathtaking sights I have seen, with the rays of the rising sun penetrating through the snow-capped trees. For the next 5 minutes, I actually enjoyed my commute as I revelled in nature's splendour. I saw a big bunch of deer (not sure what the correct parlance is) loitering together, looking all majestic and stag-like. Stags are brill. 

Then, unfortunately, I reached the end of the park and had to continue on my way, and the spell was broken. Once again, I was surrounded by exhaust fumes and drudgery; the roads full of people who just do not want to get to work, and who can blame them. The daily commute is almost uniformly depressing, no matter the choice of transport. Everyone wants to be at home in their pants instead of struggling to make their way to the office they hate, to do a job they hate. That said, I will treasure those minutes of unexpected happiness that I got this morning, as my quota for nice things is now full until May at least, so normal service will be resumed next week. Sorry about that.

Denise Welch should be vilified, not rewarded

I finally realised that the UK had been forever lost to the pagan hordes when it was revealed that Denise Welch had conspired to win this year's Celebrity Big Brother. Slightly dramatic, you may think, but, if you digest what I write here then you won't be able to help but agree, as you tearfully write off what was once a mediocre country. I really have no business watching Celebrity Big Brother. I don't watch any other reality shows that tenuously slip 'celebrity' in the title, or indeed any reality shows that feature 'celebrities' in them but don't have the decency to forewarn you.

I'm looking at you, Strictly Come Dancing. When not being celebrated as the owner of the world's smallest head, I am led to believe that Alesha Dixon spends her time laughing like an asthmatic goat and spouting generalistic nonsense about dancing, which she is clueless about. In ejecting withered old fleshbag Arlene Phillips and bringing Alesha in, the BBC made the cardinal sin which is usually reserved for banal football pundits - someone who can play football should be equally adept at explaining the subtleties of the game, QED. Thanks for Alan Shearer, BBC! All of this makes you have to wonder why ITV have poached her. BBC's gain is surely ITV's loss in this case, as they desperately try to steer the ailing Britain's Got Talent back to profitability.

Meanwhile poor old Simon Cowell has seen his glittering empire crumble somewhat, with viewing figures taking a tumble since he can no longer be bothered to turn up for his own shows. Things like this make me smile. Perhaps the Reality TV bubble has burst. I hope so. The endless conveyer-belt of identikit regional shows trundles on inexorably, as first Essex, then Newcastle, Chelsea, Liverpool etc have vied for the dubious honour of which area can sport the most shallow and vapid people. Bar the accents, amount of fake tan and skirt lengths, all the characters are the same. they are all attention-seeking cunts. Characters are shed and replaced, as the 'brightest lights' get to leave and do more prestigious reality shows. It is truly a self-propagating genre, endlessly cycling detritus like a sewage factory.

Speaking of sewage, the original purpose of this post was to lambaste the dull-witted British public for electing a vile old soak as their champion, so I will return to the subject now. I remember when Denise Welch was a vaguely good actress, but then she joined the panel of Loose Women. For the uninitiated, 'Loose Women' is a talk show where a bunch of decrepit harpies talk about every inappropriate aspect of their personal lives and interview men in a manner which is so predatory, that record complaints would be made were the genders reversed. This cackling coven of witches have the ear of all of the embittered housewives who happen to be at home when this tawdry show is broadcast, and are revered as gods.

Half of the women on the panel are home-wrecking alcoholic whores, with Denise Welch being the 'queen bee'. If there was any doubt as to her insanity (which is evident even in small doses), this was surely put aside as she spent day after day talking about herself, crying and then getting drunk and talking about herself and crying even more. She demonstrates that she has no idea about personal space, shoving her puffy face right into other housemates' eyelines to demand attention. I think it would be fair to say that she suffers from a 'Jekyll and Hyde' personality, although in this case, Jekyll is only marginally less annoying and destructive than Hyde. She typifies a certain type of woman who only display such aggressive behaviour because they are safe in the knowledge that they will not be deservingly punched in the face.

She pulled her droopy breasts out on several occasions, none of which were merited. She crawled into a Jacuzzi (in only her knickers) with a 19-year old lad when she has kids of her own around that age. She bawled at the drop of a hat. She spoke about herself endlessly. She bullied other people in the house and then turned on the tears to play the victim when people took exception. She attempted to remove the trousers of another woman in the house, and justified her behaviour by saying that she does that to her mates all the time. I'd feel sorry for her mates if they weren't all also middle-aged, drunken idiots.

She seems to permanently exist in some quasi-feminist bubble, where she really believes that her behaviour and obvious alcoholism is acceptable. I'd feel sorry for her if I had any charity in me, but I don't. Her issues should be rewarded with a sacking and a prolonged stint in the Priory, not rewarded. So that's why I know that we're doomed. If the majority of people watching Celebrity Big Brother (and I know that's not saying much) really believe that Denise Welch was the most worthy winner of that show then what does that say about us. It says that we're fucked.

Bye Scotland, don't let the door hit your arse on the way out


It appears that we are moving closer to the very real prospect of an independent Scotland, and I have seen lots of pictures of the Union Flag sans the nice blue background and I must say that it looks a bit rubbish. Other than this, I am struggling for any reason why we shouldn't help them on their way. I would even go so far as to cut Scotland off of mainland Britain with a massive laser and let the miserable buggers float up to Antarctica.

For me, in order for any relationship to work, there has to be give and take. And by give and take, I mean some sort of mutually-beneficial arrangement, not England giving Scotland loads of money, and Scotland taking the massive piss. Generally, the Scots hate the English, and this is fine - we are a bunch of small-minded detestable shits who live on a horrible, rain-soaked island in the arse end of nowhere. I hate us too.

I believe that Scotland hate the English because we get better weather, with some summer days registering above 0ยบ c. They hate us, because as poor at football as we are, we are millions of miles better than them. The Scottish Premier League is an absolute joke, full of talentless cloggers who would struggle to play in the 2nd tier of English football. The players that are good there are foreign, and soon fire their agents when they realise that actually Glasgow isn't around the corner from London.

Scotland also hate us because we happened to steal a bit of their land a few times but so what? it was crap land anyway, full of peat and shit. Sure, we wanted the North Sea oil and fish, but those have gone now so give it back, I say. Scotland have long been England's embarassing little brother anyway, managing to bring the British mortality rate down by a whopping 20 years what with all their deep-fried mars bars and haggis and that. England don't need Scotland, and Scotland HATE England so let's make a clean break.

I remember the good old days when Scotland were nice to us - they gave us Russ Abbott, the Krankies, plus hosts of other brilliantly funny comedians. Us English used to smile thinking about the luminous vibrance of ginger hair, the tangy taste of a fresh glass of Irn Bru, the lovely aroma of Buckfast pickling under the weak Scottish sun. All was well as we learned to love their alcoholism and general lunacy, so long as they let us use their tiny little province to experiment on before implementing policy changes to England.

But then it all went wrong in the 1990's; we dumped them out of Euro 1996, and an egomaniacal madcap anti-semite decided to make a film about William Wallace, and turn it into a Hollywood blockbuster. Braveheart ended all hopes of an Anglo-Scottish love-in, as the bitter Scots turned their backs on us in droves. With most of Scotland being barely literate, thank the heavens that a deluded Australian with no time for history books was there to enlighten our Scottish brethren to their spectacular mistreatment.

Looking back, a break-up has been on the cards for some time. First they went and got their own parliament which is like a Fisher-Price version of a real parliament. We let them have say on their internal policies and promised not to interfere. But then, the canny wee gits decided to keep their say on what happens in England which seemed a bit of a silly thing to allow. That said, I've never known of a Labour government that hasn't flied in the face of common sense. Perhaps if I was older.

England subsidise Scotland's miserable existence to the tune of billions of pounds per year, and in return we get lambswool sweaters and a handful of potato cakes. And in these austere times, that simply isn't good enough. I've thought about the flag thing too. Even though we all know that Wales is a pretend country, we could integrate their flag into ours. So we will end up with a groovy green background, and a big bastard dragon on the front of it. Sounds better already.

Cray-z in Lurv

OK, so everyone knows that the whole world is going to hell as the capitalist engine grinds to a halt and the commies take over. Vast swathes of Europe and other less important continents are due to be submerged under metres of water as the infernal Chinese machine gathers pace, choking the whole world in smog and melting the ice caps to boot. And if you believe the Mayans, we have less than a year to enjoy the planet we have tried our level best to ruin before it is all blown up anyway.

So thank God or whichever heathen deity you have given your immortal soul to for the shining beacon of hope that is Jay-Z and Beyonce's bloody baby. I already hate the kid which is obviously a bit unfair, but if she grows up and is only ten times as arrogant as Willow Smith then I will be amazed by her humility. The poor kid is already being groomed for international stardom, as her shrill screams have been immortalised on one of Jay-Z's banal tracks.

The only positive I could derive from Beyonce being pregnant was that perhaps for 5 minutes she would go away and leave us alone, and refrain from singing more vapid, candy-coated sexist bilge at least for a bit. But no, being a strong and independent woman she thought ahead and seemingly recorded about 8 billion songs and accompanying videos before her precious offspring ruined her vagina, so she is now more prolific than ever before.

Her latest effort basically consists of her singing the exact same arrangement about 10 times, with each 'verse' growing more and more annoying, as each verse is accompanied by a key change to the point where my ears start bleeding and my brain turns to goo. It's like she's given up even pretending to try and make good music. Such is her fame now that she could release a track entirely comprising of her bloody sprog crying backed with an odious R&B track and her fans would still propel it to number one, providing she wobbled her arse around a bit for the video.

Meanwhile, her bovine-faced chump of a sellout husband has professed that never again shall he use the word 'bitch' in any of his future records, because apparently now he has a daughter of his own he realises that, as a general term to describe 51 percent of the human population it's not the best. Quite what that says about his respect for his wife or even his mum, I wouldn't like to say. I love the fact that Jay-Z has been blubbing about how great it is to be a dad, all the while conveniently forgetting that he already has a 9-year old child who he barely sees.

So what next from the couple who are seemingly intent on capitalising on every event that transpires in their pampered lives? Perhaps we can look forward to bidding for signed photos of Beyonce's placenta on eBay. Or next time Jay-z has his prostate examined we will be treated to a dreary rap about it. Given what we have to look forward to, maybe the end of the world isn't such a bad thing. At least when we're all screaming as we are consumed by the fire of a thousand suns we can take solace in the fact that there will be no more music, merchandise, or self-aggrandising interviews from the smuggest couple in Showbiz.

The biggest stars of 2012

The beginning of any year is usually when all the gay people predict who will have an impact in the celebrity sphere in the coming year and than write their findings into whichever bitchy Heat clone they happen to 'work' for. Being the philanthropist that I am, I will provide you with my insight gratis, which is far more valuable that that of a bitchy queen, because I am a bigger bitch than all of them. My focus for this year will be to predict the stars that I think will gain the most weight. However, like the majority of publications sneeringly written by 10 stone gay men and withered, bitter childless spinsters, I will be sugarcoating my scathing predictions by using flowery words such as 'curvy' or 'voluptuous' when 'fat' would usually be appropriate, because apparently if these words are used instead women don't mind.

Adele

Thanks to her fat bootylicious frame, Adele has the appearance of a greek statue, as moving anywhere is too much of an effort. Burly roadies wheel her out onto the stage, where she manages to belt out out one half-hearted rendition of 'someone like you' before her voice becomes crackly and she is ushered backstage to eat loads of biscuits and smoke 200 Bensons. Here's hoping that Adele will give up the smoking in 2012 so that she can become even more fat womanly. The great thing about Adele is that her ego grows in direct proportion to her fatness ample curves, and if there's anything we need in 2012, it's another diva. You go girlfriend!

Gemma from The Only Way Is Essex

Gemma, who is from Essex and stars in a reality show confusingly called The Only Way Is Esex, lost a lot of weight at the beginning of 2011. But, thankfully by the end of the year she had given up and become a massive dumper again realised that beauty is on the inside. Men must be queuing up to date her, given that most skinny and unwomanly women can only boast one pair of breasts, where Gemma has several, front and back.

Kelly Clarkson

Kelly Clarkson has a set of fat folds smokin' hot curves that most skinny minnies would kill for. Pouring her feminine assets into dresses several sizes too small, her porcine lower half has become so huge curvy of late that her toes have fused into trotters! I predict a year of immense growth for the former 'American Idol' singer in 2012, as she becomes even more obese voluptuous by continuing to flitter away her earnings by eating cream cakes, iced buns and racks of lamb.

Christina Aguilera

In 2011, a miracle happened, and that miracle was managing to squeeze the bloated curvy Ms. Aguilera into a corset for one of her shows. Sadly, her massive bodacious thighs billowed out from where the restrictive material ended, giving her the silhouette of a bag of potatoes. The sassy blonde diva is representing all those fatties real women out there who also spend every spare minute of their lives eating cakes made entirely of lard. Xtina should probably cut back on the carbs this year though, because her pudgy curvy face will eventually obscure her eyes and mouth. That said, thank the lord for her humungous nose!

Khloe Kardashian

Khloe Kardashian klearly loves to karb load, as her weight ballooned to 13 stone at the tail end of 2011, and there only seems one way that her shape will go this year. Like Alice the Goon made flesh a latter-day pre-raphaelite goddess, Khloe truly epitomises plump kurvy chic. Standing at an impressive 7 feet tall, and sporting thighs that would intimidate a sumo wrestler, Khloe is representing all the morbidly obese natural women who no doubt make up her considerable fan base. Let's hope that her hubby is a fan of huge real women, lest Khloe's huge sexy arse gets kicked to the kurb.

New Years Resolutions for 2012

Get out of this job before it all comes crashing down

Make bare cash moneys

Eat more blue food

Sell the stuff I don't need

Sell the stuff I do need

Play more Xbox 360

Spend more time on my own, in a ditch

Be kind and accommodating to those who deserve it, and be a massive cunt to everyone else

Rebuild my shattered arms and bicycle and start cycling again

Hate Apple even more than last year

Get down to 200 Facebook 'friends'

Delete all my photos off of Facebook

Do some decorating and stuff and ting

Clear all of the useless crap out of my house (excluding myself)

Consolidate my media empire

Teach the hamster to do handstands